


Bells

by cjmarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Formerly Anonymous, Gen, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson doesn't bring up biscuits anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bells

**Author's Note:**

> For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt: John and Sherlock didn't survive the pool explosion. They just think they did.

John misses how Mrs Hudson used to bring up tea and biscuits, or those little sandwiches, or even an entire casserole when she was convinced Sherlock wasn't eating enough. Not that Sherlock ever ate enough when he was on a case; John hasn't known him long but he's been around long enough to know _that_. It's been ages since she's come up to visit, though; perhaps Sherlock's finally pushed her too far, and when she says she's not their housekeeper, she really _means_ it this time.

"Mrs Hudson has been letting people into the flat again," says Sherlock, studying the floor in front of the doorway with an excessively intense gaze. "I thought you told her to stop doing that."

"She probably just had the plumber in," says John.

"What plumber? We didn't need a plumber. She wouldn't have done that. Not without telling us beforehand."

"If it were up to you, nothing would ever get repaired," says John. "The pipes have been banging for weeks."

"What pipes? Those aren't the pipes," says Sherlock. "I don't know what that noise is. It's probably the neighbours, they look like the partying types. Strange noises at all hours."

"The neighbours are pensioners."

"Pensioners have more free time," says Sherlock. "More opportunity to create a disruption."

"The only disruption they're likely to make is if someone wakes them after ten in the evening," says John. "Which I seem to recall you having done on more than one occasion. From a certain point of view, you're the hooligan."

"From a number of points of view, I'd imagine," says Sherlock, "which doesn't change the fact that there have been people in our flat again."

It's true, of course. Even John can see the signs of it: footprints in the dust by the door, a used drinking glass on the table that he knows neither of them left there, Sherlock's papers out of place again and his own chair moved at least a foot to the left. They aren't the actions of a plumber, but he chooses not to acknowledge that and Sherlock kindly doesn't point it out. Well, not kindly. He probably thinks it's beneath the telling of it.

"Well, whoever they were, they haven't done any harm," says John.

They hardly could have, though. Neither he nor Sherlock has been a diligent housekeeper ever since the incident at the pool. Perhaps, John thinks, they've both realised that there are more important things in the world than wasting time ensuring that everything is in its place when you know that it never will be no matter what you do. He doesn't remember the last time he cleaned. But then, he doesn't remember the last time he did a lot of things.

"When's the last time you heard from Lestrade?"

"You think Lestrade's been here?"

"No," says John. "I can't remember the last time we went to a crime scene."

"We've just come from one," says Sherlock. "Where else would we go during the day so that Mrs Hudson can have the hooligans in without asking permission?"

"I don't know," says John, and stares out the window onto the quiet street. "Have we had this conversation before?"

"Probably, assuming you're experiencing premature demetia," says Sherlock, "and can't remember where we've just come from."

"It all feels a lot like déjà vu."

"Déjà vu is a trick of the mind," says Sherlock. "Everything that happens now has not happened before, and time flows in only one direction. Things would be far too complicated if it were otherwise."

"Well, it all feels like a trick of the mind, then," snaps John. "And it's your turn to clean."

"I like it dusty," says Sherlock, and puts his feet up on the coffee table and closes his eyes.

John sighs and is just glad that Sherlock has given up on the idea of some mysterious intruder traipsing about the apartment and poking about in their things. After all, anyone who did that would be taking their life in their hands, though John can't recall the last time he found body parts in the refrigerator.

Maybe that one's for the best.

Of course they've just come from a crime scene, he remembers now. There was something about a bomb, and John got terribly upset with Sherlock for saying something inappropriate again. So par for the course, really, as these things go. They do all start to blend together after a while.

Sherlock's got his noise-cancelling headphones on now and his mobile phone in his hand, which John dearly hopes is set to vibrate so he doesn't have to deal with it when it rings and Sherlock can't hear. Actually, he's going to go upstairs so there's little chance of hearing it—or Sherlock—at all. He's already spent all day with him; he's earned a little time to himself. There's a stair in the middle of the staircase that always used to squeak when he went up to bed, but it doesn't make a sound now. Perhaps that's what Mrs Hudson had someone in to do.

The pipes start banging again right after he lies down and closes his eyes, a distant and almost rhythmic clamour. Sometimes, when he's lying in bed like this and it's all he can hear, he thinks that distant clanging is trying to tell them something, but for the life of him he can't figure out what it is. And so he turns over and presses his face into the pillow and ignores it a little longer.


End file.
